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  • Trish MacEnulty

Where is the Wound?


Is it in our wombs -- the rape, the forced entry, the B&E of our bodies? What have I done that I can no longer find it? I'm like a stone.

But... wake me up from a deep sleep in the middle of the night, and you will smell the blood of that wound. Buried deep under my stone facade, a small girl wakes to the terrifying sound of her terrified mother screaming, "Help! Help!" And a silent man, his arm around the mother's neck, drags her out of the warm amber confines of the little house into the dark unknown.

Maybe because that happened to her, later, when it happened to me, I didn't scream or shed a tear. I was thrilled to escape with my life. I jumped from the rolling truck and ran off into my future.

So many women, so many wounds. Wounded men, too. An angry woman can turn into a pillar of ice at a man's touch. A negligent woman may forget to cuddle her boys, to whisper words of encouragement and wisdom in their ears. Women can be cruel, violent, and uncaring. Me, too. I've been those things. It's an equal opportunity world.

How to respond in the face of these gaping wounds?

Comfort the mothers, laugh with the sisters, embrace the brothers, protect the children, and forgive the fathers.

But first, love and nurture the holy self, that which is beyond all wounds, that which is you.


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